


Blood

by onlyacoffee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Canon Compliant, Drabble, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Warning for Barricade, or really short one shot, without the comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyacoffee/pseuds/onlyacoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>[drabble written for Joly Appreciation Day over on tumblr!]</i>
</p><p>Joly tries to stay calm, but his heart his beating so fast in his face on his knees on his side and in his hands, he pushes deeper, a desperate attempt to stop the blood flow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, this is Joly appreciation day and all, but I saw [this gorgeous picture](http://jen-suis.tumblr.com/post/51481294997/so-i-was-suppose-to-draw-a-jolly-joly-but-instead) by tumblr user jen-suis and remembered a scene in Band of Brothers where Roe pretty much has the same look when he tries to save a soldier's life in Bastogne and - yeah.
> 
> Warning for some gore and a lot blood and not happy Joly, which breaks my own heart, believe me.

He is cold, the rain making his wet shirt stick to his back. His hair is sticking to his forehead. He is shaking, he will probably catch a cold, but it doesn’t matter. He is going to freeze, a tiny part of his brain whispers, but then that part of his brain is gone because his face is hot, the blood pounding under his skin, on his temples. The blood is pounding on his knees, too, scraped on the dirty pavement, and on his side - where he hit the stone wall of the house minutes ago, there is blood spreading on his shirt and it might be his, but he does not–cannot think about that right now.

Because his face and his knees and his side are hot, but his hands, his hands are burning. They’re inside the gray-faced man on his lap, inside of him, in his torso where a bullet has torn an ugly hole in his flesh. There is probably more blood outside of his body than inside, and the man – his name, what’s his name, Joly remembers seeing him from time to time at the café, a law student from Bossuet’s classes, he’s sure he’s heard him laugh and sing before – groans, chokes, and is quiet.

Beaulieu, his name is Beaulieu, Joly remembers, and yes, although they were never friends the clouded blue eyes are painfully familiar, now. Joly tries to stay calm, but his heart his beating so fast in his face on his knees on his side and in his hands, he pushes deeper, a desperate attempt to stop the blood flow.

The blood does stop, eventually, because the man has no more blood left to give the streets of Paris.

Joly raises his head, looking around desperately.

“I… ” he whispers. Combeferre, with his own face painted with someone else’s gore, catches his eyes for a moment, but his distant gaze quickly turns away.

I’m sorry, Joly wants say. I tried, he wants to cy.

Then Bossuet’s hand on his wrist, gently prying his hold from the dead man’s – Beaulieu’s – blood.

“I’m cold, ” is what Joly says instead.


End file.
